The Trio of Troubles
by Cuaglar
Summary: The tale of how three unlikely people found a common cause: To unravel the mystery of a will, and to survive!
1. Chapter 1: Lyr

Explanatory Note: While this fanfiction is in the D&D section, there is a wide array of worlds in which to set a story. This one is set in Eberron, which has a few unique aspects not found in regular fantasy. For now, I will describe the things that appear in this chapter.

Changeling: A race of shape-shifting humans, descended from doppelgangers, who have the ability to change the physical characteristics of their faces to disguise themselves with ease; kind of like Tonks, only more alien.

Warforged: A race of sentient, thinking constructs, rather like robots, only they are composed of steel, stone, and wood, and don't have any programming or anything. They are fully capable of thought and emotion, but were built to be warriors to fight in a long, hundred-year-war that has just ended, called the Last War.

Sharn: A city in the nation of Breland, consisting of magically supported towers. Rather like Coruscant (for you Star Wars folks), but only on a small section of cliff. In tone, rather like a bustling city like New York or Los Angeles.

Airship: A vehicle like a sailing ship, but can fly through the air thanks to the power of a fire elemental (an otherworldly creature made entirely of flame) that is magically bound to the ship, and under the control of the Captain.

House Kundarak, Orien, and Sivis: In Eberron, there are a number of families of varying races called Dragonmark Houses, so called because of Dragonmarks. These are magical designs that sometimes appear on people in the family, that look somewhat like light blue tattoos, and bestow a magical power that can be used for economic benefit. The Dragonmarked Houses control economic powers that fall under the domain of their dragonmarks. For example, House Kundarak is a dwarf clan whose dragonmarks help in warding and guarding things, so they control the Banking Guild throughout the land, House Sivis is a house of gnomes whose dragonmarks aid in bureaucracy, and they control the processes of documentation and messenger services, and House Orien is a House of humans whose dragonmark aids in transportation of goods and people, and they control nearly all modes of overland transport.

Book 1: The Trio of Troubles

Chapter 1: Lyr

Rain poured down like some colossal being in the heavens was pouring a bucket of water on Sharn, City of Towers. It dripped from thousands of balconies, bridges, walkways, and ledges, virtually unseen in the darkness of the night, with the clouds blocking the moon and stars. Even the everbright lanterns that lit the way only showed a few feet before the rain and gloom dimmed their light.

Along the Dura Walkway, a road going along the edge of Dura district, walked a solitary figure. It had a long spear, at least twice as tall as a man, over one shoulder, and it swayed as she walked. For the face that looked out of the hood of a dark grey cloak that protected its wearer from the rain was that of a female changeling. Her skin was pale grey, her eyes almost completely blank white, and her nose and mouth were barely distinct. Her hair, mostly hidden behind her hood, was white as well.

She was dressed in the clothing of a noble, using a style that could be considered acceptable for both men and women, so that she could be taken easily for both. Her cloak covered pale blue silk and embroidered cotton, with gold and silver thread worked in as well.

When she passed into a small patch of light, her features melted and changed, until she now had the face of a mustached, aging gentleman, with wrinkles and tired, pale blue eyes. When she left it again, she shifted back. There wasn't anyone to see Lyr; it was just a reflex when she might be visible. But in the dark, it felt better to use her own face for a time.

Lyr had spent about a year by now in Sharn, where even changelings like her could find some measure of trust and acceptance. But the most appealing aspect of Sharn to Lyr was that it was easy to hide, both literally and figuratively. It was also far from Aundair, though that wasn't as appealing to Lyr, as Arcanix had once been her hometown. Well, Sharn was her home now, so far as a changeling could call a place home.

So she walked the empty walkway, looking forward to get inside the common room of the Burning Brand Inn, where she could look forward to a warm fire and good, inexpensive fare.

Lyr was nearing the Bridge of Three Stars, a graceful, white structure that arced over the chasm between three of the large districts, when something caught her ear. The sound of heavy, routine footfalls, as of someone marching in leather boots, and the jingling of mail rings. Lyr did what came naturally; she crouched in the deeper shadow of a nearby building, squatting low and wrapping her cloak around her to hide. She preferred to see who was coming before they saw her; if it was the Sharn City Watch, then it was worth her time to avoid them. If it was someone else, maybe she could lighten the load in his pockets to pay for the night's meal.

As she slid into the shadows, two men came around the corner of the walkway in front of her, and looked out over the Bridge of Three Stars, and the walkway Lyr had just come from. They weren't guardsmen, but they were armed. Each of them had a steel helm, on which raindrops tinked and clinked on, and mail shirts, and shields. Over their mail they had a white hauberk, on which was emblazoned a green hand or claw, and the same device was painted on their shields.

One of them, taller than the other, looked around, and as his eyes crossed Lyr's, hidden, the changeling could see that one half of the thin-faced man's face was hidden, with only an eyehole to see through. He didn't see Lyr, apparently, so he turned to his shorter fellow and said, in a hoarse whisper,

"The letter said she'd be here."

The other answered quickly,

"Don't doubt your superiors, Larek. She's here, or will be. Let's keep looking along this walkway."

They passed Lyr by, and continued down the way she had come. As they rounded the far corner, Lyr let herself relax, and stand up. What did they mean, 'she?' If they were referring to Lyr, she would do well to avoid them. Being indebted didn't help forthrightness in the slightest. If they weren't talking about her, it was none of the changeling's business, and she should continue on her way.

She emerged from the shadows, and started hurrying along the Bridge ahead. As she walked, she shifted her features to look like a watchman she had seen earlier that day, a naïve-looking young man. Across and to the right was the Burning Brand Inn, where she could find shelter, and a crowd to hide in. But before Lyr was even halfway across her leg of the Bridge, a man showed himself in the light of the street-lamp in the middle of the bridge. He was arrayed much as the other two had been, and the part of his face that could be seen was broad and rough.

He called out to Lyr, asking,

"Lyr the changeling?"

Startled by the man's sudden appearance and his knowledge of her name, Lyr forgot herself and answered,

"Yes? Oops."

The man by the street-lamp grinned, and pulled a flail from his belt, a weapon with a spiked ball shaped like a spined, clenched fist, and yelled,

"Then, in the name of the Blood, I sentence you to death!"

Behind him, and on the third leg of the Bridge, more helmed, mailed warriors emerged into the light, and drew various weapons of their own; swords, axes, maces, all made their appearances. Lyr thought of running, and turned around, and saw the men who had passed her running back up the walkway, cutting off her escape.

So, flight was out as an option. Lyr must fight.

Lyr cast her cloak over her shoulder, and pulled her hand crossbow from her hip. For emergencies, it was always loaded while she walked the streets of Sharn, and discharged when she was at rest.

She raised her crossbow, aimed carefully, and released the bolt. It sped with a clunk from the crossbow, and flew across to the throat of the man who had called out her death warrant. He collapsed, but his fellows took warning, and raised their shields to protect themselves better. Lyr would only get lucky like that once. Now she had work to do.

As she stowed the hand crossbow again and readied her long-spear, from the darkness came a sudden, rumbling sound, like a dozen explosions occurring simultaneously. Lyr took the chance to glance over her shoulder, and saw an airship beginning to descend into the canyon that the Bridge of Three Stars spanned. The rich, golden-brown wood and golden ornamentation of the elemental vehicle was lost in the murk, but the bound fire elemental, in the shape of a ring of crackling fire girdling the ship, was plainly visible, with a plume of steam rising from the rain falling into it. Maybe that could be useful…

Lyr was forced to pay attention to the warriors before her again as one raised a sword to strike her down. She deflected the blow with the haft of her spear, and brought the point down to ward her adversaries off. She thrust the spear at the man who had swung his sword at her, but he shunted the strike to the side with his shield and advanced. His fellows were closing in, and the roar of the airship was drawing closer. A risky idea struck Lyr, and she suddenly ran to the edge of the bridge, and hopped up onto the railing that protected careless people from falling off the bridge. She had to time this right.

Lyr's attackers surged forward, eager to take her at her precarious perch, but her long spear deterred several from drawing closer. The airship was finally going under the bridge, and it was time for Lyr to make her move. She whirled around on the bridge's balcony, and jumped off. If she had timed it right, she'd land on the deck of the ship. If not, she'd fall hundreds of feet into the chasm below.

As the cries of her assailants ringed with outrage and frustration above, Lyr plummeted through the air. She fell about twenty feet, and though she had taken care to roll with the fall to lessen the injury, the force of the impact was enough to wind her, and as she somersaulted when she landed on the deck she lost her balance, and rolled down the deck, taking buffets and splinters from the wooden floor. Lyr stayed still a moment, trying to fight down the pain and regain her breath. As she lay gasping, she heard heavy bootfalls heading towards her, but she couldn't summon the strength to stand up yet.

"Oy! What do you think you're doing, coming down from above like that? As if we don't have enough falling from above this night!" A deep, woman's voice said, from not so far above. Lyr shifted her face into a young, freckled woman as she rolled over onto her back to see who addressed her. A number of bearded dwarves, all in black and gold uniforms, were gathered around her, and closest was what looked like their superior, a burly dwarf woman with braided black hair, a heavy mace in her hand.

_Oh, just great. This, on top of everything else. I hate dwarves. _Lyr thought to herself, hiding a look of disgust.

She pushed herself up, and stood on her own two feet, using her spear for support. Using a frightened, high-pitched voice, she answered the dwarf woman.

"I'm j-just a servant of Lord ir'C-Candrell, miss. I fell b-because some men were attacking me! They had me c-c-cornered, and were going to hack me into little b-b-b-bits, but then your airship flew under, and I thought it would c-catch me!"

The dwarf raised her brows, and looked suspiciously at Lyr. In return, Lyr subtly lightened the tone of her face, to look more panicked, and shivered. Her legs seemed to be fine, though she could already feel places that were going to be sore later.

At last, the dwarf woman said,

"You say a fight? What did the men who attacked you look like?"

Lyr looked down, as if trying to remember, though she of course recollected every hate and anger-filled face. It was a habit when the face you saw three months ago might be the one you don in the present.

"There were too many, at least twenty of them. But they were all in uniform, like knights in mail shirts, with helms that hid half of their faces. Th-their shields were white, with a g-green claw, or hand painted on it." Lyr finally answered.

The dwarf woman thought for a moment, and then said,

"Well, I'm not from around here, but that doesn't sound like a Sharn under-city gang. I don't think the criminal element here goes for knightly garb. We'll be docking at the Kundarak Bank Tower in a few minutes, and then I'll have some dwarf guards escort you home, and I'll give a report to the City Watch."

Lyr broke in quickly. She didn't want a bunch of stubby, smelly dwarves following her, and she could hide easier in this city with no one tagging along.

"Thank you very much, miss, b-but my lord's apartments aren't t-t-too far from the Bank, miss." She stuttered humbly.

"Very well. But if you are in trouble again, remember the name of Captain Bregga." The dwarf turned around, and bellowed to her crew,

"Hands back to stations! We're in Sharn, dammit, not five hundred feet in the air with nothing to hit but clouds!"

The dwarves scattered across the ship, leaving Lyr alone. She sneezed to clear the stench of dwarf out, and drew her cloak around her against the chill of the rain as she limped to a bit of shelter near the cabin, and devoted some time to thinking.

What had provoked that attack? It was the first time Lyr had ever seen that insignia; she certainly couldn't have stolen anything of importance from them. All she'd been doing these last years was stealing enough to make ends meet; a bauble there, a purse of a few score silvers, nothing to get noticed about. She'd even taken enough care to avoid the attention of the tangled mess of criminal organizations that spread their roots through Sharn, so she wouldn't be pulled into it and working for somebody else.

Back to thinking. Lyr had to find out who it was who was after her life in order to think of the best way to avoid it. Well, she already knew the best place to find out anything in a big city like Sharn was to visit the place where a cross-section of the population had their tongues loosened; i.e, the inns and taverns, the feast-halls and the ale-houses. Getting information from the patrons of such places was much like finding a vein and feeling the pulse.

So, a plan of action having been set, Lyr waited. Eventually, the airship floated in front of an immense, broad building made of white marble, with an enormous gold statue of a manticore at the pinnacle. Lyr sneered at the grandness of the structure, the Kundarak Bank of Sharn. How'd they pay for such glory? Through the chains of debt from people like her, that's how!

The airship went through the docking maneuvers, delicately trying to get parallel to the loading dock without damaging itself, and when at last the lines were tossed to the dock (more for tradition's sake than practicality; the airship wasn't going anywhere unless the captain told the fire elemental to) Lyr quickly crossed the gangplank, and began leaving the tower as soon as possible.

After about an hour, Lyr thought that she had gotten far enough away, and far enough down, she began looking for a suitable inn to sift for information and rumors in. Perhaps, if she was lucky, she'd be able to hear something about a group of knights that were visiting Sharn who wore the green hand.

After only a short time, Lyr found a likely place. It was a dingy little place, built in a long, crowded space along a walkway, clinging to the outside of the tower it was attached to like a tick. The sign over the door, which had been kicked in and repaired many times, declared it as the Gargoyle's Gulp. Lyr changed her face to one as masculine as possible, with a stubble beard, prominent eyebrows, and a large nose, and made her way inside, tugging a little at the door to get it open.

Inside, it was murky and dark, with a pale candle at each table, and a lantern by the bartender, a tired-looking old man. Most of the patrons had already gone home, but a few were still talking, eating, and drinking, in a hush as though they were giving respect to the dead.

This wasn't optimal, Lyr had to start somewhere. She sat on a stool by the bar, and said in a Karrnathi accent,

"Beer, please."

The innkeep grudgingly gave her a glass, and she sipped the bitter stuff as she covertly studied the clientele. Couple of humans in the corner, probably new at this; never go to the shadowy corner unless you want to be noticed. There was also a gnome, perhaps a Sivis scribe by his grey and red-banded tunic, and drinking heartily. Lyr didn't mind gnomes very much; after all, they had been responsible for crafting her airship. But when the gnome decided to get up from his table and join her, she could tell that he was very drunk, and unlikely to be very good company. As a source of information, however…

She smiled at the gnome as he climbed clumsily onto the stool beside her, the big, beefy grin of a burly Karrnath. As soon as he was perched successfully, he grinned back. He was a young gnome, probably only fifty, and probably just beginning his service to the Notaries Guild.

"Hullo," he said, slurring. "I shay, have you heard about the break-in? Shome knight chapsh tried to break into the Houshe Shivish Archivesh!"

"You don't say?" Lyr asked dully, but her curiosity was piqued. The gnome continued,

"Yeshir, nearly got a really, really important, wossname… Doccament, a will it wash. A will from Profeshor ir'Darbun, up in Morgrave University." The gnome pointed to the air, although Sharn's most famous center of learning was probably more to the south. "But we shtopped them! Our wardsh were too good for 'em! They got away, though."

"Why do you think they wanted that will so badly?" Lyr asked, looking down on the young gnome.

"Well, I really shouldn't be tellin' you… I'sh Guild bushinesh." The gnome said, though he looked longingly at Lyr's beer glass. She took the hint, and ordered a beer for her new, 'little friend.' He smiled, and raised his small-folk sized glass to Lyr.

"Sheersh!" He said incoherently, and took a few gulps. Lyr waited patiently, watching intently.

"Y'anywaysh, the will. It was from Profeshor ir'Darbun, up in Morgrave Univershity. Tought Divination, I think. Anyway, he up and diesh, and leavesh thish will, right? Well, he don't leave all hish shtuff to hish shishtersh or daughtersh or whatever, but he leavesh all his houshe and posheshionsh to theshe weirdo shtrangersh! People he'd never even met!"

"Who were these strangers?" Lyr asked, prompting him on. He paused to take a long pull from his drink, and then the gnome continued.

"Leshee… There wash thish wizard, from Houshe Orien, named Loressin d'Orien, who mighta been a cleric too, a warforged warriorior, who washn't named in the will, but they shaid she had a big flail. An' the lasht wash called Lyra, or Leer, or Lyr, or shomethin' like that. A changeling, to boot! Changeling with a weird name. What kind of man leaves his stuff to a changeling?"

Lyr was stunned, and for a moment fell silent, trying to take it in. Someone Lyr had never met had left her a _house?_ The moment was the one needed to lose her opportunity to learn more, though. The gnome took another long draw from his beer, and the toughness of his race failed him, and he passed out. Lyr caught him from falling off of the stool, and set him on the floor. She didn't even pick his pockets, she was so overcome with surprise. Besides, every man in the tavern would see.

She straightened up and finished off her drink, and addressed the patrons of the inn.

"Money is indeed a horrible thing. People steal it," To herself, she added, "No one I know", "People get placed in debt for it, (again, no one I know), and people kill for it. What I wouldn't give for a world without money!"

The clients of the Gargoyle's Gulp lifted their mugs to Lyr and cheered half-heartedly, then turned to their own business. At last, having a lead to follow, Lyr left them to their own. Once outside, it was still raining, but somehow, something had lightened. Now Lyr had a direction to go in; to find these other heirs of this Professor ir'Darbun.

Lyr washed the beer from her mouth with the rainwater, and thought as she wandered through the streets. Wherever they were, these heirs were probably in the same predicament as she, and there was safety in numbers, especially for her. If the knights who that gnome scribe mentioned were the same green-handed thugs who had attacked her, then perhaps they were after the other two heirs. Perhaps, if they weren't in Sharn, the other two would be driven to the City of Towers.


	2. Chapter 2: The UnNamed

Book 1: The Trio of Troubles

Chapter 2: The Un-named.

Down deeper in the bowels of Sharn, where the water from the sky was basically a constant torrent, the Un-named walked. Her stone and steel feet clanked and clicked on the cobblestones of the street, and her eyes glowed green in the gloom. Her dull black adamantine plating rasped and scraped when she moved, and the chain of her heavy, deadly flail clinked as it tapped gently against her back, the weapon being held in a special sheath designed especially for it.

'She' and 'her' were only subjective terms, however, words serving for the lack of a better term. For there was little feminine about this hulking, massive warforged, striding along with more than seven feet to her height. But the Un-named had heard other warforged who talked in the higher, more melodic voice that she used refer to themselves as female, or as a feminine personality, so she decided to think of herself the same.

The Un-named was walking 'home' from 'work', words that needed even more definition, and were used to make her feel better. 'Home' was an alcove in an alley higher up in the Towers where the Un-named would stand and wait for the sun to rise, because she didn't need to sleep. And 'work' was a smithy down in the depths of Sharn, where she helped the blacksmith there cart his goods around. There, she was called Wheelbarrow.

The Un-named had had several names throughout her life, so far, depending on the task she had been doing. She had been called Wheelbarrow, Cutter, Sentry, even Ladder to a small gnome librarian who climbed on her to reach the books on the top shelf, too touchy to ask the Un-named to get them for him. But she had tired of those jobs quickly, and had quit. Tomorrow she might even leave the name of Wheelbarrow behind.

The warforged was a mystery, especially to herself. For she was younger than the other warforged she had met, she could tell. Most had been created at most five years ago, before the Treaty of Thronehold had been signed. The Treaty of Thronehold, from what the Un-named discovered, had declared that warforged were declared to be free, living people, not property or slaves, but it had also declared that no more warforged were to be built. What was curious about the Un-named was that she had only existed for a little over a year, as far as she could tell. All she could remember, from the time her existence started, was seeing a large, tall chamber with many glowing lights. Then a blindfold had covered what could only be called her eyes, and her hands were restrained. She had been led up, up, up, and then her flail had been placed in her hands, the blindfold had been whisked off, and a voice had said,

"Make your own way in the world, warforged. We'll be watching."

So the Un-named was set loose in Sharn, without a name, a history, or a clue. Yet, somehow, some things had been instilled in her without her needing to learn. She could speak the Common tongue, and read it, yet no one had taught her. She could walk, and talk, and fight.

Oh, yes, the fighting. Where warforged were, eventually there would be fighting. Mostly from people unaccustomed to the strange constructs, wishing to prove their superiority to the warforged, that people of flesh and blood were still better than people of stone, steel, and wood. During these scraps, the Un-named had somehow discovered that she had remarkable fighting prowess instilled in her, and she could best even hardened veterans of the Last War, who had seen many campaigns. But she detested it, she hated fighting. Unfortunately, her build and her weapon seemed to constantly attract bravoes who wanted to test their mettle against her, and she had to defend herself somehow.

So the Un-named walked upwards to her 'home', walking through the rain that seemed like it was being channeled all through the city only to fall on her. She passed along a street lined with taverns, and from one of them emerged two men, leaning on each other and singing drunkenly. The Un-named had never understood alcoholism, as she neither needed to drink nor eat, and she understood that drunks were unpleasant to deal with, so she went to the other side of the street and waited for them to pass.

"An' she flew me all the way to Trolanport!

And then she flew me back!

She left me alone in Korranberg,

And didn't even pack!" the two men sang as they staggered up the street towards the Un-named, and as they tripped past a street-lamp, she saw that they were both in mail, with helms on their heads and shields in their hands, with white surcoats and white shields with green hands on them.

_Probably guards for a merchant somewhere in the city, _the Un-named thought, but then she noticed something odd. When one worked in the lower sections of the City of Towers, one saw plenty of drunken people, and these two weren't drunk. They were very obviously pretending to be. The Un-named wondered why, and slowly felt for the haft of her weapon.

The two men stopped in the middle of the street, and the Un-named could see that one had long, tangled blond hair that came out from under his helm, and the other had a red beard and mustache. One looked blearily at the warforged, and left his fellow to walk unsteadily towards her.

"I say, say, you don't got a name, warforged? 'Cause I got a… a sommat for you. A letter."

The Un-named said, her voice strong and loud,

"I have no name, and no purpose. Who has sent me a letter, and where is it?"

"I got it right here… somewhere…" the bearded man dug around in his pockets, while the Un-named casually reached her hand around like she was scratching her back, but her three-fingered hand closed around the haft of her flail instead. She didn't like this. She didn't like this one bit.

At last, he found a letter, and held it up, despite the rain coming down from above.

"Ah, yes. The letter." He said, ceasing to pretend to slur his words, "But I'm afraid it's not actually for you. It's for me. It's your death warrant."

He crumpled the paper in his hand, and wrapped it around the handle of his sword, which he drew and pointed at the Un-named.

"In the name of the Blood, we sentence you to death!"

His companion behind him drew his sword, too, and the pair advanced on the Un-named, intent on destroying her. But she was ready for this. She pulled her flail from her back, a large weapon with a long haft for two hands, and a chain with a large spiked ball at the end, shaped like a curled-up dragon. She began whirling it around her head, spraying rainwater all over, in an intimidating display, and the two paused their advance for a moment. This was all that the Un-named needed. She stopped the swinging by grabbing the chain just above the ball, spun about, and began running back down the street, the way she had come. Behind her, she could hear the men cursing and starting after her.

As she pounded along, the sound of her hard feet beating the cobblestones, she felt a certain joy. She had been hearing about how the warforged were free to make their own choices, and make their own way. Because the Un-named had been lost and uncertain before, she had followed for the most part the directions of others, and didn't pay much attention to the talk of choice. But now she had made a decision of her own; to not fight. To not give in to the combat that she had been built for. And, though she was being pursued vigorously by men who wished her destroyed, she felt a strange, warm glow inside that she had chosen for herself.

However, as the chase dragged on, the warm glow began to fade. Even though the warriors were burdened by their armor and weapons, and were running slowly, the Un-named was also weighed down by the heavy adamantine armor that had been crafted onto her, so though the humans weren't catching up, the Un-named wasn't pulling ahead either. Also, the humans were more nimble than the warforged, and often cut off routes that led higher up in the city, and were herding the Un-named deeper into Sharn, further away from help. Eventually, before they hit the bottom, or below, she would have to turn and attack her pursuers.

Finally, she could go no further. She stopped, and planted her feet firmly, widely spaced. The flushed, panting faces of the humans lit up with anticipation as they too slowed, and readied themselves for combat. But the Un-named had a surprise up her sleeve, although she didn't need clothing.

She suddenly began charging directly at the warriors, her eyes blazing brightly green. Her sudden rush caught them by surprise, and the massive head of her flail crashed right through the shield of the blond knight and knocked him off of his feet, a good five feet away with the force of her blow. He lay still as the Un-named turned to face his bearded companion, who lashed out with his sword. It was deflected harmlessly by the Un-named's armor, and he hastened to get his shield up in time to block the reprising attack.

But the flail was specially designed to circumvent shields, and the Un-named struck the haft of her weapon on the edge of the shield, and the ball circled around and crashed into the helmet of the knight. He collapsed as well, falling to the street with a dull, wet thud.

The Un-named stood contemplatively over her dead foes, the rain coming down from above. She tried to console herself that it had been done in self-defense, but the feeble defense they had put up convinced her that they probably couldn't have done much harm to her. In addition, if anyone found her with them, she would in extremely serious trouble with the law. She washed the blood from the head of her flail by splashing water on it from a nearby horse-trough, and was about to start going higher up in Sharn when she passed by the bearded man again. The letter he had displayed was still clasped in his stiff fist, wrapped around the hilt of his sword.

The Un-named knelt quickly, and her strong fingers opened his fist, and freed the parchment. There wasn't enough light to read it here, so she stooped over it to protect it from the rain, and started jogging steadily away to find a more secure place to peruse her new find.

Once the warforged felt she was a safe distance away, she walked up to a street-lamp and looked at the paper she had retrieved. It had once been folded neatly, but the recent battle and crumpled it badly. It had also had a wax seal on it, but it was broken, and any trace of an insignia that might have been on it had long since vanished.

She unfolded it gently with her stone fingers, and began reading it.

_To Shorath, and the Fourth Brelish Cell,_

_I have a delicate, but hopefully enjoyable task for you and your company to perform. As detailed in my previous communication, my worthless brother, the late, retired Professor ir'Darbun, has passed away, and left his entire estate to three complete strangers. I have tried to replace the will with one more favorable to my plans, to inherit the manor myself, but the Sivis archives were protected too well. Therefore, I am forced to other measures. I have eliminated every messenger sent to bring the strangers to their inheritance, and confiscated their letters, and so have a good description of each. I want you to take your men to Sharn, and hunt these people down. Then I will inherit the estate as next-of-kin._

_First, and most dangerous, is a feminine personality warforged that goes by no name. The letter mentioned that she is identified by her adamantine plating and a two-handed flail, whose head looks like a curled-up dragon. Currently, she works for a smith in the lower regions of Sharn, who calls her Wheelbarrow, but she will not answer to that name. Be cautious with her; she is very skilled in combat, and may overmatch you._

_The second is a changeling woman of shady background, named Lyr. She will be hard to identify, because of the abilities of her race, but she will be dressed in courtly clothes of Aundairian fashion, and carries a long-spear over one shoulder. Though she is very intelligent and crafty, if you cut off her escape she can be dealt with easily._

_The third is a young, human wizard named Loressin d'Orien. He is easily identified by wearing bright yellow robes with a black trim, and a black pointy hat with a black and yellow feather in the headband. He is armed only with a dagger, and is practically defenseless except in his magic. However, he possesses the dragonmark of Passage, and so may conjure a means of escape unless you take necessary precautions._

_Eliminate the above-mentioned targets as swiftly as possible. Every day you dally is another day my superiors must wait until the estate is mine, and in turn, theirs. Your reward will be presented to you when you bring their heads to the agreed-upon spot. _

_Do not fail._

_Lord ir'Nubraed_

_Post-script: You have had difficulty in the past with this, but it is absolutely VITAL, by the Blood of Vol, that you burn or destroy this letter when you have read it._

The Un-named folded the letter carefully again, and held it in her hand to protect it somewhat from the rain.

So. Another choice had to be made, and the Un-named had no one to advise her.. These thugs, these people, were after her and these two other strangers. Should she seek them out and try to gain the fortune suggested in this letter, or try to stay out of it? If she looked for the other two heirs, it would probably lead to more fighting and bloodshed. And even after they got the estate, the Un-named would have to share it with others, when she was accustomed to living alone.

On the other hand, keeping out of things was what she had been doing all her life. Keeping out of society, keeping out of the eye of the city guard, keeping out of life itself. It was time, time to make a start on living, on being a person, and a personality, not a Wheelbarrow, not a Cutter, and, most of all, not a Flail.

Her steps were loud and sure as she marched her way up into the upper levels of Sharn, on the way to her new life. Or so she hoped.


	3. Chapter 3: Loressin

Book 1: The Trio of Troubles

Chapter 3: Loressin d'Orien

Elsewhere in Sharn, in the Galifar Library of Sharn, a pen scribbled away into the night. Inside the thin, ivory-coloured tower, a young man wrote feverously in a blank book, copying from another large tome that was propped up in front of him. By his side, illuminating the desk, was a bright lantern, and next to it was a wide-brimmed, pointed black hat, from which pointed a long, black and yellow. The man sitting at the desk was swathed in bright, cheerful yellow robes, with a black hem and sleeves. His hair was shoulder-length black hair, and his beard was carefully trimmed and angular. His eyes peered through a pair of small spectacles perched on the tip of his long nose, and his hand holding the quill he was writing had a fingerless black glove, covering a pale, blue dragonmark.

_And there we found a crumbling ruin, with distinctive, bold, almost defiant architecture that declared it to be Dhakaani, and built during the time the hobgoblins had their grand empire. We ventured inside, after taking necessary precautions, but found it empty. It was rather small, not like the extensive ruins found elsewhere, and mostly ruined. However, we did find a small chamber, which when we pried the stone door open revealed to be the tomb of a hobgoblin warlord, probably in rule of one of the smaller goblinoid kingdoms after Dhakaan fell in the Daelkyr War. Here we found several interesting artifacts, which included-_

Snap!

"Dammit! That was the third quill this evening!"

Loressin cast the broken quill-point aside, onto the floor. After growling a curse or two in the scholarly language of Draconic, he slammed his book shut. However, he managed to control his temper long enough to close the original more gently.

Loressin d'Orien had been working since mid-day, copying books. His tutors at Korranberg University, in the gnome land of Zilargo, had been of the school of thought that the best way to learn a subject was to copy a book about it, which also served the ulterior motive of producing another book at the same time. As all such works had to be handwritten, it was an effective method for spreading learning, so long as the student copied the original text precisely.

While Loressin had long since graduated from Korranberg University, he still liked to follow their prescribed practices. He had been working on a collection of reports made by excavators, explorers, and adventurers about various Dhakaani ruins. Loressin knew many details about the hobgoblin-ruled Dhakaani Empire, but he believed that one small fact that he did not know would be buried in all that obscure detailing.

The young wizard had heard of the saying, "Knowledge is Power," but he had no truck with it. He craved knowledge and information for knowledge's sake alone, and had no other ulterior motive to his constant prying and learning. He looked at the books on the shelves around him, and their comforting, lore-filled presence calmed his anger over his broken quill. After all, he could only imagine how many quill-points had been broken in scribing all those books? Loressin respectfully picked up the book he had been copying, _A Compendium of Explorations of Varied Dhakaani Sites and Ruins_, and put it in exactly the right place. As he picked up his hat, and placed it on his head, he heard the rain outside begin to slow, and eventually stop. Loressin smiled, glad at least that he didn't have to walk in the rain back to his inn.

He picked up his bag, and began the long walk down the narrow spiral staircase that ran throughout the tower. As he walked, he regretted the fact that the book he had been reading had been practically at the top of the structure, free standing high above the webs of bridges and walkways that the population of Sharn walked on. Though the spells keeping the immense weight of the tall, stone towers of the city from collapsing would, theoretically, never fail, Loressin knew too much about arcane matters to really be comforted, as the wind began to blow outside and shook the tower. He gripped the railing of the staircase tightly as he began making his way downwards. Sharn, the city of a million books, was all right with Loressin, except for the damned heights!

He finally made it to the entry hall, which was a bit wider than the spindly tower became higher up. It was round, and expansive, with a large map of Khorvaire painted on the floor. The spiral staircase down which Loressin was walking rose from Sharn, in southern Breland, in the center of the room. On circular shelves around the hall, protected from thievery by a barely visible shimmer of enchantment, were rows and rows of books. At one end was a great set of wooden doors, and at the opposite end was the clerk's desk, where a dark-haired young woman behind it was talking with a group of four men, in dark grey cloaks. Loressin waved at her in fare-well, to let her know that she was leaving the library, and walked out. As he opened the large doors, he heard one of the cloaked men say,

"Thank you for your time, ma'am."  
Outside, the sky was still shrouded with the tail ends of the rainclouds, but no more rain was coming down. Loressin breathed in the refreshed air, and began walking down the thin bridge that connected the Library with the rest of Sharn. Behind him, he could hear the Library doors opening and closing again, as the men left it. Loressin didn't pay them any mind, and went merrily on.

He had almost reached the end of the bridge, when he slapped his hand to his forehead, a superstitious gesture to punish stupidity. Loressin had forgotten the book he had been writing in! He turned around, and began hurrying back to the library. As he passed the cloaked men, Loressin smiled apologetically and said,

"Forgot my book!" And they let him pass, murmuring,

"Happens all the time, hope you find it."

Loressin walked all the way back up the stairs, after explaining himself to the librarian, and arrived at the necessary floor. He absent-mindedly swept the abandoned book into his bag, when a sound made him turn around.

Coming up the spiral staircase were the men he had passed on the way out. But now their hoods were back, their cloaks over their shoulders to free their hands, and shields in their hands. Terror grew in Loressin as he saw the symbol on their white surcoats and shields.

"The Emerald Claw!" Loressin whispered. The men, pleased to see his fear, said,

"Loressin d'Orien, we sentence you to death!"

They lunged forward at him, drawing their swords. He hurried behind his desk, and gripped his right hand in his left as he winced suddenly in pain. His dragonmark burned, like a brand suddenly pressed to the back of his hand, and Loressin saw a sudden, chaotic burst of sound and color, and he felt a terrible, wrenching feeling throughout his being as he passed between the world of Eberron and the field of magic that suffused it. As suddenly as it started, the colors vanished, the sound stopped, and the wrenching feeling and the blazing pain of the dragonmark vanished. Loressin had used the power granted to him by the mark to shift himself to three stories below. No scholar had ever been able to explain how the dragonmarks came about, or why they gave magical qualities, not even the dragons of Argonessen. Personally, Loressin was worried by it, and used that strange power sparingly.

But, at the moment, he was more worried by the men who seemed intent to shove a foot of steel into his heart. Loressin began hurrying down the staircase, hoping that his sudden disappearance had bought enough time for him to make an escape.

Back in the lobby, Loressin saw that the librarian wasn't at her desk. Loressin hoped it stayed that way; if those men came down, they might kill her in passing as a witness to their attempted murder.

Loressin ran out of the entry hall, slamming the double doors behind him as he darted along the bridge to the rest of Sharn, his robes flapping around his ankles, and his hand on his hat.

As he hurried into the crowded thoroughfares and towering alleys of Dura District, Loressin couldn't help thinking academically about the Order of the Emerald Claw. He was in great peril, and running for his life, but the lessons that his teachers had tought him filtered into his waking thoughts, as if being shaken loose from the shelves of his mind by his jogging.

Loressin remembered that the Emerald Claw was founded in the early years of the Last War as an elite fighting force by King Kaius I of Karrnath, as the nations of Thrane and Aundair, the arcane and divine, hemmed in on them. Though they had served with distinction throughout the Last War, Kaius III, the grandson of the man who had founded the Order, worked to disband it, at last outlawing the knights. However, to this day various acts of terror linked to the Emerald Claw (or even proudly declared to be their work) were perpetuated, in the name of a Karrnath which no longer wanted or needed them. Several works Loressin had read hinted that the Emerald Claw served another master, mightier than the Kings of Karrnath, but nothing was definite.

Loressin paused behind a carpenter's shop to catch his breath for a moment. He fought down the history of the Emerald Claw to think about what they were after his blood for. All Loressin had done recently was travel to Sharn, and copy out three books. Had one of them concealed, in its pages, a secret that they didn't want to let out? No, it couldn't have been. The three books he had read and re-written were _The Twelve Families,_ a book about the dragonmarked houses, and the _Weretouched; _a book about shifters. Nothing at all related to Karrnath or the Emerald Claw.

All Loressin could hope to do was find a good hiding spot until the knights had lost his scent, and then report the incident to the City Watch. Loressin wasn't sure whether he could appeal to the Watch for protection, being of Aundairian nationality, but surely any man in peril in Sharn should fall under their protection. In pursuit of concealment, Loressin walked along the street, moving generally downwards into the darker regions of Sharn.

A/N: This is a short chapter because Loressin was a DMPC, or a player character run by the Dungeon Master, and I didn't roleplay his encounter with the Emerald Claw because it's boring to play by yourself, in D&D. He entered the game officially in the next chapter.

May I take the time to note that Lyr and the Un-named are the intellectual property of my sisters, Asia and Christina, and that Eberron is owned by Keith Baker. I think.


	4. Chapter 4: Union

Book One: The Trio of Troubles

Author's Note:

House Phiarlan: A dragonmarked House of elves, which governs the Artisan's and Entertainer's Guild. They are premier singers, artists, musicians, and masters of all the arts. Secretly, although this secrecy is not very emphasized in the Eberron Campaign Source, it is also an espionage organization, selling information to those who have the gold, and who they deem worthy.

Thrane: A small nation ruled by a theocracy devoted to a deity called the Silver Flame. Though the Silver Flame is a force that espouses goodness, humility, and generosity, its believers tend to be militant and proud, nearly as prone to spread the word by book and missionary as by crusader and sword. Corruption also shows up especially bright in the ranks of the Church of the Silver Flame.

Chapter 4: Union

Lyr walked down the Seventh King bridge, on the way to the House Orien enclave. She figured that either the other two heirs, the nameless warforged and Loressin, would either wind up there eventually, coming through the lightning rail, carriage, or caravan system from another city, or to escape Sharn to Wroat or elsewhere.

She was disguised as a pale-skinned, black-haired elf, with refined features and a haughty, aristocratic expression. With any luck, she could be mistaken for a House Phiarlan musician or performer, and be left alone.

The rain slowed, the rushing noise gently fading as at last it diminished into a shower, then a sprinkle, then, finally, nothing at all. The moons shone down on Sharn, now washed with the rain that had masked them. Three moons were currently bright and present, all full. The other nine were far off, hidden from unaided sight by the gulf of distance between Eberron and the satellites. The stars began to twinkle again as well, though bright lights elsewhere in the city dimmed them somewhat.

As Lyr splashed through the puddles, she chanced to see a large, hulking shape coming up one of the walkways, climbing steadily upwards to the level the changeling was on. It was a good distance away, and would be a few minutes before it was anywhere close to her, judging by its slow, weighty, measured pace. Lyr set down her spear on the ground, against the base of a railing, and looked out across the gulf, pretending to be taking in the sights and new, refreshing scent of a rainstorm just passed, while really surveying the walking figure below. Was it a warforged, or not? At any rate, Lyr couldn't be sure whether it was the nameless one that the Sivis scribe had mentioned or not. All the same, best to be sure it wasn't following her.

The Un-named climbed steadily upwards, ever upwards out of the black belly of Sharn. Though it wasn't so black now that the rain had stopped, she was glad to be out of it, all the same. If glad was a word that could be used with this gloomy warforged.

She wasn't sure where she should start looking, but something told her to start from the top down. For one thing, any city watchmen would be closer. For another, the knights of the green hand might be more hesitant to attack her with well-to-do witnesses about.

The letter she had found, her death warrant, was still clenched tightly in her fist, and her flail was near her other hand, ready to be drawn in defense at a moment's notice.

That moment came when the Un-named crossed the Seventh King Bridge. Suddenly, she felt a cold point press against her neck, in the gap of wood between two plates of adamantine, and she heard a woman's voice ask,

"Do you have no name?"

Quicker than would be expected from one of her bulk, and with swiftness that surprised even the Un-named, the warforged twisted around, raising her hand to beat aside the point of the spear. She grabbed the haft and yanked it out of her assailant's hand, then whipped out her other stony hand and grabbed a finely dressed elf woman by the collar and slammed her against the wall. The Un-Named twirled the handle of the spear and set its steel point against the elf's throat as well.

"Who wants to know?" The Un-named snarled. The elf held up her hands in a helpless gesture, and her face melted and changed until it became grey and almost featureless, framed by pale white hair.

"Lyr, the changeling." She answered. Blank grey eyes stared into glowing green ones for a moment, then the Un-named set Lyr down, and handed her back her spear.

"I've been looking for you." She said, simply.

Lyr landed on her feet gracefully, but was posed to run.

"And I you, if you have no name." Lyr answered carefully.

"I do not. But I do have an enemy, it seems."

The Un-named retrieved the crumpled letter from the ground, and placed it in Lyr's hand. She read it quickly, and put it in her pocket under the cloak.

"Old news to me. I heard the same thing from a Sivis scribe. So, you must be the nameless warforged that this Professor ir'Darbun left his estate to, along with me and the Loressin character."

The Un-named looked down on the changeling, pondering. The warforged didn't have much business with changelings, but she had heard that they weren't very trustworthy. However, if she just stayed close to Lyr, perhaps she wouldn't be able to double-cross her. And maybe she would be a valuable companion. Lyr looked like she knew the ways of the world, and would be a good guide for her.

"So, what shall we do now?" Lyr asked the Un-named. She remained silent. The warforged was used to her current employer asking questions like that, but not to her; to themselves. They didn't need her advice, they would have said the same thing to the wall.

However, apparently Lyr thought differently.

"Hello! I was talking to you! What do you think we should do?" Lyr said imperiously.

The Un-named started, and said in a surprised voice,

"Go get the will?"

"Well, that's a start. But you should know better. I don't think the Sivis people are going to let any old warforged and a changeling who says her name is Lyr into their archives, especially to see a will that's so hotly disputed. Not a lot going in our favor, regarding identification. I think we should find Master Loressin d'Orien first. If he's House folk, he'll probably have some form of official documentation."

The Un-named nodded in agreement, though she didn't quite understand what all the subtlety was needed for. Sure, a changeling would have difficulty with that stuff, but surely they could tell one warforged from another?

"I think the best place would be the Orien enclave. I was headed there anyway, but either they know where he is, or we can take a caravan or carriage to wherever he's most likely to be." Lyr continued. "So, onward ho!"

Loressin, meanwhile, was going to the Orien enclave as well. The large, towering complex, hosting the lightning rail station, caravan center, and carriage depot was in sight, though still quite a long walk away. Loressin had fought long and hard against the notion, but he had finally decided that his family were the best ones to turn to in his situation. The City Watch would be too slow, and would detain him in a 'safe house' which could be easily found, and then spend weeks searching for the Emerald Claw knights, who would be right under their nose, going about their everyday business out of their knightly garments. If Loressin sought the protection of his House, as a dragonmarked, he could be placed on the next lightning rail coach and be swept off anywhere in the world, practically.

The only downside would be that it would reveal his location to his family. He had run away from his responsibilities shortly after the Last War ended, having served a seemingly interminable two years as a lightning rail coach conductor and guard. Loressin had skillfully avoided the attention of House Orien for a further two years, going to earth at Korranberg University and doing various scholarly projects for them in return for anonymity, and veiling from his family. If Loressin took refuge with the House now, all that would have been for naught, and he would be planted right back into the dull business, in the prime of his life.

It seemed he had no choice, though, and a lifetime of servitude was a small price to pay for his life. So Loressin squared his shoulders, straightened his hat, and began walking along the maze of bridges and walkways that would lead him to the Orien Enclave.

A little while later, Loressin looked up to find that he was only one or two streets away from the Enclave. Hope began to kindle, and he began hurrying onward hastily, eager to get to safety.

The hope, so quickly aroused, collapsed just as suddenly. Upon turning a corner swiftly, Loressin nearly ran right into the arms of a tall bearded man in green and white livery.

"Aha! Here's our little runaway wizard!" He said hoarsely, leaping barehanded at Loressin. Loressin turned to run, and narrowly escaped being seized about the throat. He began running as fast as he could, and behind him he could hear a shrill, tinny horn being blown. The hunt was on!

"Help!" Loressin yelled as he ran, back away from the Orien enclave, at last losing his head completely, "Help! Murder! Someone HELP!"

Lyr and the Un-named warforged walked silently side by side. Lyr hadn't had much truck with warforged, almost as little as the Un-named had with changelings, and was slightly uncomfortable in the big living construct's presence. Her throat was sore, and, though she hid it, as well as she hid nearly all truths, her legs were still shaking a little from the violent encounter. She had to keep on her toes around this one, until Lyr gained the Un-named's trust. After that, she would be easy game.

They were approaching the enclave, when suddenly they heard a man yelling. There was the sound of running feet, mostly heavy boots. Lyr and the Un-named turned around, Lyr shifting her face to a human woman's and readying her spear. Beside her the Un-named pulled out her flail and held it in a tight grip.

"Help! Oh, please, help!"

In the distance, a man in bright yellow robes, with a black pointed hat came running around the side of a tower, running towards Lyr and the warforged. Behind him, slowly catching up, were four mailed men in familiar green and white uniforms.

"More of them!" Lyr exclaimed. "Whoever they're chasing can't be too hostile to us. It might even be the wizard we're looking for. Let's get them!"

"I can take two of them swiftly." The Un-named said, with a sadness that Lyr found surprising. The advanced, jogging hurriedly forward, Lyr's spear held forward and the warforged's flail held back, ready to strike.

The young man saw them coming at him, and apparently decided that, despite their armed state, at least they weren't the ones chasing him. He shouted, as he ran towards them,

"They're trying to kill me!"  
"We know! Get out of our way!" Lyr shouted back as she ran right past him.

The Un-named ran full-on into the group, using the momentum of her charge to crash her flail on one of the warrior's helmets. However, the others evaded her reach and circled around. One stayed behind, trying to flank the Un-named, and the other two ran after the wizard and Lyr.

For some people, times of stress creep by with agonizing slowness, every moment lasting longer than it should. For Loressin, nothing was further than the truth.

From the second the warforged clashed with the Knights, everything became a blur of noise and confusion. One moment Loressin saw the huge black warforged run right into the warriors with a huge crash, then he saw the elven woman who had snapped at him jabbing skillfully at another knight with her long spear, then, suddenly, a knight was right in front of him. Loressin recalled one of the few offensive spells he had learned, and frantically shaped a sign in the air with his hands while panting out the incantations. A jet of bright crimson and blue fire leaped from his fingers, but in his haste to complete the spell it blazed right past the knight. The magic was gone from his mind; he could not cast that spell again.

The warrior in front of him pressed forward, and Loressin tried to scramble away. There was no help. The warforged was trying to free herself from two knights who were flanking her, one attacking on either side, and the elf woman was not much of a match for the combatively trained knight.

And, while Loressin was making this analysis, he suddenly saw the head of the flail zoom towards his face, and his world went black.

When he awoke again, he was in a room paneled with comfortably cream-colored wood, on a low bed with a black-haired halfling man standing over him. At the foot of his bed was the warforged that he had seen, and a brown-haired young human woman, who was wearing the clothes that the elf that was fighting with the spear had been wearing. A changeling, Loressin realized.

With difficulty, for his head was hurting extraordinarily badly.

"Where am I?" He groaned, raising his hand to his head.

"You're in the House Jorasco healing emporium of North Sharn," the halfling said, taking his hand and putting it back on the bed. "Your friends brought you here. You were unconscious, and it was a wonder you weren't dead. What happened?"  
"That's a matter for the City Watch to know." Loressin said, cross at the healer. He was actually adept in the study of healing, and wanted to make his own diagnostic.

The halfling didn't take offense, just shrugged.

"Very well. The dragonmarked Houses don't have any need to interfere with the cities and kingdoms of the world. I've healed plenty of people just tonight who didn't want to reveal the source of their injuries or ailments. That'll be five silver pieces, per day of recuperation, and five for the initial treatment."  
Loressin nodded, then winced at the pain it caused. It would take days to recover, unaided. Fortunately, Loressin wasn't unaided.

He put his hand to his brows again, and spoke an invocation in a low voice. Bright energy, divinely bestowed, flowed from his hands to his head, and the terrible pain faded, leaving only a dull headache.

"I am trained a little as a priest of Aureon," Loressin explained, "and thus have a healing touch, though not much."

He sat up, and dug in his pouch for five silver coins and put them in the healer's hand.

"I think we should go now. My situation is such that I don't want to linger in one place for too long."

"As is ours," the changeling said. "We can talk about it outside."

Loressin, after picking up his hat and spectacles and putting them on, walked with the warforged and the changeling together outside of the building, escorted out by the halfling healer. They were in the middle of a sizable complex, of small buildings all flying the silver banner with a golden griffon of House Jorasco.

"I'm Lyr. We managed to kill the rest of the thugs, but you took a really nasty knock to your head." the changeling told Loressin, and Loressin replied,

"I am Loressin d'Orien, and I owe you my life," Loressin said, holding out his hand. Lyr took it, her eyes suddenly shining, her mouth curved in a triumphant smile. Loressin smiled uncomfortably back.

"Ah. That's why my mother told me never to owe a life-debt to a changeling… And what is your name, 'forged?" the wizard asked, trying to change the conversation.

"I have no name, and no purpose." The warforged answered, revealing that this large creation was a feminine personality, by her voice.

"Ah, you must be Nameless the Aimless!" Loressin said chuckling, only to be cut off by the glares of Lyr and the Un-named.

"Actually, I think Militia would be a good name for you," the changeling told the warforged. "Since you sound like a woman, it sounds feminine, and yet because you're a good fighter, it has a martial ring to it."

"Militia… Yes, it will do." Said the no-longer un-named warforged.

"Well, I'm glad we all know each other's names. But what of our situation?" Loressin interjected.

Lyr immediately began explaining, telling of her fight for her life on the Three Stars Bridge, and about Militia's fight in the bowels of the city. She told him of the letter, of the mysterious will and their inheritance, and of the wicked plot to keep them from getting it.

"Ah, it comes together." Loressin said, when she was done. "I happen to know the identity of these murderers. They are a chivalrous order called the Emerald Claw." He then went on to explain at considerable length their history and current activities, as they walked out of the healing enclave and out into Sharn at large. As he talked, he wished he was a little more like conventional wizards and sorcerers, and had a staff to lean on instead of the dagger at his belt.

When the full tale was told, it was plain to Loressin what had to be done.

"Well. We have the Order of the Emerald Claw after our lives. They almost succeeded with me. Each and every one of us has no safe refuge, nowhere we can stay and defend ourselves in a central location. The city watch-"

"I can't go to the Watch." Lyr protested.

"I mean no offense, but I didn't think so, given your race. Like I was going to say, the city watch can only help a little, and not enough. To me, it seems that what we need is a strong place, a place we can protect ourselves. I remember reading about the Fourth Brelish Cavalry in the Last War, Darcus' Dozen, when they were on a raid into Thrane. While they were mobile, supposedly at their greatest strength, they could not win free to Breland again, so they stopped in a ruined keep, and there held off the Thranes until one of Breland's floating fortresses could come to their aid. I think we should find such a-"

Lyr interrupted him impatiently.

"Honestly, can't you 'educated' people ever get to the point without showing off how much you know? Get it out!"

Loressin straightened his hat at her indignantly.

"I think it's time we visited the Sivis Enclave."


	5. Chapter 5: Inheritance

Book One: The Trio of Troubles

Chapter 5: Inheritance

MILITIA! Inside, the former Un-named reveled in the name. MILITIA! It was a name! A NAME, not an occupation, not a tool, not a weapon! Militia! She knew now that she was forever in the debt of Lyr, for helping her find her true name. Militia! It was a name she could LIVE with!

She had never known such a feeling, such a powerful, consuming joy. She was even a little uncomfortable with it, and walked pensively behind Lyr and Loressin as they went along their way.

They were approaching the Sivis enclave, a large, white tower rearing from the foundations of Sharn to compete with the highest spires of the city. Long banners with the Mark of Scribing depicted on them waved in the bright moonlight, and bright lanterns blazed merrily along the narrow bridges that went through every level. The artistry of the gnomes grew clearer and clearer as they drew closer, elegant carvings that blended with the masonry so cunningly that it took a moment's study to realize what you were looking at.

Milita walked steadfastly along the bridge, until they were in the shadow of the door. Water still dripped from the overhanging arch, and two gnomes in grey uniforms with red sashes and long halberds in their hands barred the way.

"Please leave your weapons with us."

Loressin willingly drew his eagle-hilted dagger and handed it to the gnome, and Lyr handed over her spear, but Militia was a little more reluctant. Her flail had been the first thing in her life, practically, and it had never been out of her reach before. But then, it had been given to her as a tool, just something to make sure that her purpose was served: to fight. To kill.

Persuaded with this knowledge, Militia gave her flail to the gnomes, and they opened the door for them.

Inside was a large hall, and the first impression was of enormous splendor. The entire room, except for the long white marble counters along two of the walls, seemed to be gilt with gold, though, knowing the gnomes' aptitude with illusions, it might not have been. Chandeliers gave a bright, golden light throughout the room, shining off of the gilt walls, and there was another large door at the other end, presumably the other side of the tower.

There was only one person in the hall, at this time of night, an old, wrinkled gnome in a grey overcoat, with a red badge. Lyr and Loressin approached him, and Militia followed after.

The old gnome seemed friendly enough, even at this late hour. As Loressin came up to the counter, he smiled at the wizard and said,

"Good evening, my friends. What can I do for you?"

"We are here to view a document. We are Loressin d'Orien, Lyr, and the Un-named warforged, here to claim the will of Professor ir'Darbun."

The gnome looked at them with greater interest, looking long and hard at each of them.

"Do you have any official identification?" He asked politely. His tone was still friendly, but there was still a hidden current.

"I do, but my friends left their papers in Aundair." Loressin replied, "But you have the word of a dragonmarked heir of House Orien that they are who I say they are."

Loressin pulled off the fingerless black glove from his right hand, and made a fist towards the gnome clerk, showing the pale blue markings of the House of Passage.

The gnome wasn't impressed. He shrugged, and said,

"That can be tested further. But I cannot let you read the will, myself. I must speak with my manager."

He got off his high chair, and made slowly for the door behind the counter, and left them alone in the hall.

Militia waited patiently where she stood. She had spent much longer waiting for each dawn, and could wait for the little space she saw ahead. But the other two weren't so perseverant. Lyr tapped her foot impatiently and leaned against the counter, and Loressin fidgeted and looked worried.

After a half an hour, the gnome clerk returned, this time with another gnome, younger with sleek blond hair. This new gnome welcomed Lyr, Loressin, and Militia,

"Welcome to the Sivis enclave! I am Master Dargat d'Bravis. Please, come this way. I shall show you the will presently. Whether you shall inherit it will be presently decided."

He walked up to the counter and waved his hand through it, showing it to be illusory, though it still looked solid. Loressin walked through first, where the Master d'Bravis had waved his hand, and passed through, with Lyr and Militia following. She thought it was rather strange, and wanted to examine it a little more, but Master d'Bravis beckoned them on to the door.

They passed through, into a long, curving corridor that gradually rose, with doors going into the inside of the tower. It was also darker than the grand chamber outside, with only lines of candles for illumination.

They followed Master d'Bravis through the tunnel silently, with only the thud of Lyr's and Loressin's boots and the clang of Militia's feet making noise. At last, they came in front of a door, which Master d'Bravis opened after flurrying his keys self-importantly. Inside was a chamber, which flickered with some barely visible energy: protective enchantments. In the center of the room was a pedestal on which a black box rested, with some unseen light shining on it.

"Let me go in first; we've had security problems with this item before, so it's best to let me go ahead and disarm the defenses." Master d'Bravis said, stopping Loressin from going forward. The gnome took a long route around the walls of the room, supposedly wandering aimlessly side to side, but really carefully avoiding trap and alarm triggers. He made his way all the way to the far side, and began walking towards the pedestal, but still carefully, stepping out of the way, and sometimes waving his hands in the air and whispering things that Militia thought only Loressin could understand.

At last, at the pedestal, Master d'Bravis got out a key, and set it to the bottom of the pillar. When he was done, he said,

"Lyr, come forward. No one else, for now."

Lyr walked out into the room, and up to the pedestal, without mishap. The gnome opened the black box for her, and got out a piece of parchment.

"Now, read the will." Master d'Bravis told her, handing her the page. Lyr took it carefully, and set it down again after reading it over quickly.

Master d'Bravis next called Loressin, who took such a long time looking at it (Militia wasn't even sure if he was just reading it; he might have also been studying the work itself) that Lyr called out at him to stop wasting time and get it over with.

At last, it was Militia's turn. She walked calmly up to the pedestal, and took the will.

It was short, and to the point, in thin, curly handwriting.

_I, Professor Bendred ir'Darbun, being of sound spirit, mind, and body, hereby declare my last will and testament._

_All my teaching materials and possessions that were used in the instruction of my students in Morgrave University shall be left to Sarl Windwright, who has already agreed to take up my post as Dean of Divination and Overseer of Prophecies, Omens, and Portents. These materials will be defined as the objects in my office in Morgrave University at the time of my demise._

_All other possessions, estates, and goods are to be divided, as they see fit, between Loressin d'Orien, Lyr the changeling, and a warforged that, at the time of writing this will and testament, has no name. This is my will and testament, and will not be denied._

_Loressin is a wizard, a priest of Aureon, and dragonmarked of House Orien, and may be found studying in the Galifar Library of Sharn on the 4__th__ of Therendor, and can be distinguished by dressing in bright yellow robes with a black hem, a black pointy hat with a black and yellow feather, and has long black hair and a beard._

_Lyr can be found crossing the Three Stars Bridge in Sharn near midnight on the 4__th__ of Therendor, and may be chiefly identified by the blue nobleman's clothes she wears, and the longspear she always carries. Her physical appearance may vary, according to the disguise she is in._

_The nameless warforged, at the time of the writing of this will, can be found in the employment of Earkain Blacksmith, in the Lower Dura district of Sharn, and is called by him Wheelbarrow, though she will not answer to that name. She can be identified by her heavy black adamantine plating, her great size, and a large flail, whose head is shaped like a curled up dragon._

_According to my dying wishes, these three people must have messages sent to them, informing them of their inheritance, by no later than the 2__nd__ of Therendor. Once they have been informed, they are to come to the Sivis Archives and shown the will, after which they shall be escorted to my estate at Jennus Towers._

_Professor Bendred ir'Darbun_

When Militia had finished, she set it back in the box, and Master d'Baris closed it again.

"We have now verified that you are the heirs, in truth. There was an illusory script enchantment on the will, such that anyone who was not the designated reader who attempted to read it would be placed under a compulsion to put it back and surrender themselves to the nearest Sivis warden. Since none of you had that effect, you must be the proper heirs. Now, if you'll please follow me to the entry hall, I shall send for a skycoach to send you to the Darbun Manor, to complete the inheritance. In a few days, we shall send a notary to you, for you to sign the final agreement that you are satisfied with your inheritance."

The gnome led the three back to the entry hall, which was ringing with shouts.

"I demand to see the will! I was the deceased brother, I have a blood right!"

"You have already seen the will seven times, m'lord. Besides, we do not allow people into the Archives at this hour unless they have a direct relation to the document involved."

"I am directly involved! I was his brother!"

"But you were not named in the document you wish to seek, so therefore it has no relevance to you. Please, return in the morning, and you may have access to it."

Militia came out of the door first, and saw a man in a rich red and gold overcoat, with a haughty aristocratic face arguing with the gnome behind the counter, leaning forward with his hands on the table. His long, orange hair, probably neatly combed most of the time, was in disarray now, as he looked up at Militia, then at Lyr and Loressin as they came out, especially at Loressin.

"Who are they?" He asked.

"They are the inheritors of Professor ir'Darbun's estate, m'lord." The old gnome answered, keeping his tone neutral despite the rage of the man before him.

The man studied them a little longer, then said,

"Then I have no further need to be here."

"That's right." Master d'Bravis said forcefully, coming through the illusory section of the counter. "Now, if you will excuse me, I need to confer with Fadder over here. We shan't be gone long, please wait for us, and we'll show you out. Do you wish for us to order a skycoach for you, Lord ir'Darbun?"

The red-headed man seemed to calm down a little, and he answered in a refined voice,

"Yes, please. I would like to leave as soon as I may- I am weary."

The two gnomes left, leaving Lyr, Loressin, and Militia alone with Lord ir'Darbun.

He put on an apologetic face, and said,

"Please, pardon my anger. It is too late to be bothered by it now, but I thought my brother loved me a little more, to put even a little trinket for me in his will. I am Lord Astrad ir'Darbun, and you must be Lyr, Loressin d'Orien, and the nameless warforged mentioned in the will."

"My name is Militia now." Militia declared proudly.

"Oh? Really. I think it suits you." Lord Astrad said politely.

"Say, my lord," Lyr asked matter-of-factly, "Were you the Professor's only brother?"

Lord Astrad nodded sadly, and said,

"Yes, and his last living relative. No parents, cousins, sisters, aunts or uncles. I was his younger-"

Lyr interrupted him by pulling out a piece of wrinkled paper from her pocket, stepping forcefully up to him, and shoving the paper in his face.

"Does that handwriting look familiar to you!?" She shouted, and Militia realized that the paper was the letter that the warforged had found. She moved closer, in case a confrontation broke out, and Loressin drew nearer as well.

Lord Astrad snatched the letter from her hand, glanced at it briefly, then quickly tore it into three narrow strips, and then putting them in his pocket.

"You have much to learn. Never put incriminating evidence into the reach of the one that it incriminates. As a matter of fact, though, it wasn't my handwriting. I forged the writing of a rival of mine, so even if you had kept hold of it, I could have claimed that it was merely an effort to put a black spot on my name. Since you also killed the only other witnesses to your attacks, it puts me pretty much out of danger. Good night, ladies and gentleman. Enjoy the Manor."

Lord Astrad bowed towards them, and made for the door.

Militia took three large steps, yanked him around, and grabbed him by his collar.

"I'm not as subtle as you are," She growled, raising him into the air, "but by the gods, I am strong. And, together, we are stronger than you will ever be, even if you had an army of millions at your command. So make your little threats, and your little attacks. We'll be ready for them every time."

Militia let Lord Astrad drop again, and he made a gesture towards his hip as if he were going to draw a weapon. However, there was nothing at hand; he had left his weapon in the hands of the wardens at the door inside. Lord Astrad made an ugly face at the three of them, then stormed out of the entry hall, apparently forgetting about his skycoach.

Militia merely let herself relax after he was gone, but Lyr and Loressin needed a moment to collect themselves, which they were to be denied. Right after Lord Astrad left, Master d'Bravis came back in, and said,

"Your skycoach awaits you outside, my friends. Just out the other end of the hall. Has Lord ir'Darbun left already?"

"Indeed, he's gone." Loressin said, keeping his voice neutral. It seemed to Militia that he had been shaken by that encounter. Militia didn't understand why it had frightened him so. Could he really have been that isolated?

The gnomes showed Lyr, Loressin, and Militia out, onto a large platform with a silver railing. In the middle of it was as skycoach. It was a device that looked like a carriage, only there were no horses, and on the bottom was a small globe of crystal or glass that contained a swirling mist, that occasionally spat sparks. In addition, it was floating about a foot above the ground.

In the pilot's seat sat a human man in a black and silver overcoat, who was yawning widely, and in the passenger seat (which was separate from the pilot's compartment) was an elderly halfling woman, rather stout with white hair drawn back in a bun, dressed in a servant's gown of pale grey.

When she saw the three, she hopped nimbly out of the skycoach and walked towards them with considerable dexterity, given her age.

"Ah! There you are!" She said, "Lyr, Loressin d'Orien, and Militia! My master was right, as usual. Or, rather, my former master. I am Ms. Lealeaf, the maid of Darbun Manor. I was expecting you; I can explain further on the way."

She walked back to the skycoach and held the door open for them, smiling and beckoning. Lyr and Loressin went in first, while Militia maneuvered to get her bulk inside and rocked the skycoach a little as she sat down. Ms. Lealeaf came in after and shut the door, and rapped at the panel where the pilot of the skycoach sat.

With a sudden lurch, the skycoach rose swiftly upwards, and Loressin, who had the window seat, gasped and shut his eyes tightly as they went up, and away.

The dark buildings of Sharn, nearly invisible except for the moonlight and the glowing windows of a million candles, lanterns, and spell-lights, swept by as the skycoach hurtled between and among them, and as Ms. Lealeaf told her piece.  
"I served the Darbun family for near sixty years, and Professor Bendred ir'Darbun for the longest. I was his nurse, then his maid, for all the time he lived in Sharn, and I knew him as well as anyone could. He was a strange man, bless him, but he treated his servants kindly.

"Well, about a month ago, he came down with a strange illness, that no one could cure, not his normal healer, nor a House Jorasco adept, not even a priest of Olladra. When he felt his time draw near, he called all that were dear to him, one by one, to his bedside and told them his final words. He called me last.

"'Ms. Lealeaf, dear,' the Professor says to me, 'I have a letter for you. However, you must keep it secret. Let no one know of it, not even Snatterthwaite-that's the butler- and don't read it until an hour before midnight on Therendor the 4th. This is very important, but I can rely on you.' He hands me the letter, and sends me off. He died within the hour, bless him.

"Well, I kept my word. I waited all this time, keeping his letter safe, and opened it up this morning. And what does it tell me? It tells me to accept you as my new masters, and mistresses, and gave descriptions of you. And it gave your name, Ms. Militia, though they said the warforged wasn't named. I guess the Professor only found out what your name would be a short time before his death. He was a right good diviner.

"So, here we are. We've been paid in advance for a year, Snatterthwaite and I, so you can get accustomed to having a household staff."

Lyr looked very pleased, and began asking about various things about the manor. Loressin, as far as Militia could tell, wasn't listening at all, but was sitting stone still with his eyes shut tight.

As for Militia, it would certainly be a change. Having people serving her instead of her serving people. She couldn't say that she was very comfortable with it, as she had been uncomfortable for much of this night.

Before she could worry about it too much, though, the skycoach suddenly landed. They were on a large, square plaza, with a fountain in the middle, ringed with normal-looking mansions and wealthy houses, for those people who disliked living in tower flats, as luxurious as they may be. The skycoach came to rest in front of one, made of pale red stone and three stories high, with a dome of glass on either side of the roof, with a peaked roof between them.

Ms. Lealeaf led the way out, and Lyr, Loressin, and Militia piled out of the skycoach. As they were walking up the steps to the door, it was opened. In the doorway, holding a candle, was an old gnome. Militia began to wonder why they were meeting so many Small Folk today. The gnome, apparently Snatterthwaite the butler, was dressed in a light grey robe over a black tunic, and had bright blue eyes that glinted with some inward cunning. His hair was white, and a terrible mess, standing up all over the place, although a little effort had been spent to brush it back.

"Good evening, masters." He said as the three approached with Ms. Lealeaf. "I am Snatterthwaite, your butler. Please, allow me to show you the manor before you retire."

Snatterthwaite and Ms. Lealeaf led Loressin, Lyr, and Militia through the house. It was plain that the Professor, scholar though he was, appreciated his creature comforts. The walls were all lined with red wood, and candles and windows abundantly illuminated every corner. There were pedestals and plaques cluttering the floor and walls, with various artifacts resting on them, ranging from things as mysterious and mystifying as a griffon skull engraved all over with some manner of goblin runes to arrowheads from the days of Galifar. On the first floor, at either end of the manor, were a sitting room littered with small tables and comfortable chairs arranged around a large fireplace, and a dining room, with a long ash table large enough to accompany more than twenty people, with suits of antique armor lining the walls.

The second floor was a group of five bedrooms, two being rather larger than the rest, each with a fireplace and a privy, and a large, comfortable four-posted bed. The third floor consisted of a study, which was crammed with bookshelves with a large desk in the middle, and of a greenhouse mixed with an observatory. Here, there were long troughs filled with soil, with plants from all over Khorvaire blooming and growing, though not high enough to block the view of the large, brass telescope that took up the middle of the floor.

After seeing the manor, the three went back down to the sitting room to rest their feet and talk a little before going to sleep.

"Looks like we have come across quite a windfall," Loressin was quick to note. "Look at this place! Professor ir'Darbun must have used his divinatory talents for more than scholarly pursuits."

"He did make several superb investments, sir." Snatterthwaite agreed as he brought in three glasses of Bluevine wine, and handed them to each of them. Militia downed her glass quickly, to act a little human.

Lyr shook her head.

"I'm sure it won't last for long enough for me to enjoy it fully, with my luck. What we must remember is that this isn't just a mansion some old coot gave to us for no reason- no offense, sorry Snatterthwaite. This is a fortress. Those Emerald Claw folks aren't going to just let us enjoy ourselves. They still want this house. They are still a danger to us. We can't let our guard down."

She stood up, and drained her glass.

"Now, on that happy note, I'll leave you to your thoughts. I'm going to bed."

She walked upstairs, and Loressin, feeling his temples gingerly, said,

"It has been a long day, and much too exciting for me. Hopefully we'll have a long time before our lives get so exciting again."


End file.
